


Nothing New

by confidencealive (dazzler)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 04:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazzler/pseuds/confidencealive
Summary: “I hope, like me, you find that you can pair that fire with some wine-- and some love.”





	

It could be a memory when it starts-- those kinds of dreams plagued him since the war began, uncomfortable reminders of happier times. He’s standing in the living room. The sun fills the house with a golden glow as it sets, and he hears Maelgwyn and his friend playing outside. He follows the smell of cooked food to the dining room, and Samothes is waiting.

They haven’t spoken in ages. Samot hoped, when he arrived with his army at the gates of Marielda, that Maelgwyn would finish the job before it came to that. After all, the time for conversation had long since passed.

He’s here now, though, and how Samot missed him.

 

\--

 

_“We can’t keep calling him Confidence Alive,” Samot says in a low voice. He stands over their baby’s dark wooden cradle, a gift from Samol following the child’s birth. “It’ll go to his head.”_

_Samothes laughs, and Samot quickly covers his mouth with a hand so he doesn’t wake the baby. “I mean it!”_

_Samothes’ fingers encircle Samot’s wrist, warm and calloused from endless hours in the forge, and he kisses the palm of Samot’s hand, beard scraping against his skin. “Alright. Surely you can find him a suitable name in one of those books of yours.”_

 

\--

 

“I missed you, too.”

He sits at the broad oak table, an untouched meal of spiced meats, baked bread, and drink before him. He’s dressed for High Sunday, in a light robe embroidered with gold thread.

Samot takes a seat at his right side and pours himself a glass of wine. “I know you aren’t him,” he says. “He no longer exists in this form.”

Samothes just stares back, dark eyes burning through him, and Samot feels something cold and ugly coil in his gut. He traces a delicate finger around the edge of the glass. “I’m seeing a reconstruction of my memories, nothing more.”

“Once again, you think yourself the most important being in creation and that all life hinges upon your existence,” says Samothes, sounding almost fond. “Although your ego did bring me here, in a way.”

“You’re exactly as temperamental as I remember you,” Samot says, and he holds the wine up in a toast before taking a sip. It’s bitter on his tongue. 

Samothes sits back in his chair and folds his arms. “I won’t ask if it was worth it.”

“You’re right,” Samot says. “There’d be no point in that.”

 

\--

 

_The first High Sunday he ever attends as a god is a day of festivities and joy. Samothes prepares a throne for him, wood and leather carved with his symbol, and a room, decorated to his liking._

_After the banquet, Samot dances until his feet ache, all the while feeling Samothes’ heated gaze on him from across the room. He lets Kindrale twirl him around the floor, which is impressive considering their height difference, and he even manages to convince Samontine into a plodding waltz. Samol pulls him away for the next dance, much to their relief._

_“I couldn’t be prouder of you, little prince,” he says, and Samot glows with the praise._

_Later that night, Samot manages to slip away from his retinue and take the lift up to Samothes’ room._ _Samothes sits on the bed like he’s been expecting him, and he looks up with a smile when Samot crosses the room and climbs in beside him._

_“Happy birthday,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Samothes’ neck. Returning the embrace, Samothes presses his lips to Samot’s hair and calls him by name._

 

\--

 

“Why didn’t you stop him? To hear my cobbin friend tell of it you didn’t even put up a defense.”

“You know why,” says Samothes.

“I want to hear you say it.” Samot reaches out and strokes the side of his jaw, the gesture more commanding than tender. "Tell me."

Samothes leans into the touch and closes his eyes. “In some part of my heart, however foolish, I still trusted you.”

Samot pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. With trembling fingers, he picks up the glass again and laughs into his wine.

“Oh my love, I wish I’d killed you myself.”

 

\--

 

_After Samol returns to the woods, the two of them linger in the dining room until the sun sets. Samothes’ eyes are still damp. Samot laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand tight, and for the first time since he was a shadow in the vale, he cannot find the words to speak._


End file.
